The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; Let that aye be your border; Debar a' side pretences; Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature ; And ev’n the rigid feature: Be complaisance extended ; For Deity offended ! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded ; It may be little minded; A conscience but a canker- Is sure a noble anchor ! Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, “ God send you speed, Still daily to grow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A’ye wha live by soups o' drink, Come mourn wi' me! An' owre the sea, Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea. Wi tearfu' ee; That's owre the sea. 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble That's owre the sea. In flinders flee; That's owre the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Ill may she be! An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, Could ill agree; An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in; Wi’ him it ne'er was under hiding ; He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, And fou o'glee; That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing Billie ! Now bonnilie! Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, In time o' need, Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, Like onie ditch; Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Are bent like drums; Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Wi' perfect scoliner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornful view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, His nieve a nit; O how unfit! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle ; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis ! |